


Touch

by Willia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Masturbation, anyway mmmmmmm here's some filth, i'm basing this off my own experience of being young and unable to communicate, is your oc even complete until you've written the first time they had sex, this is so vanilla and straight and i'm the first to be surprised of that fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willia/pseuds/Willia
Summary: She doesn’t quite know what does it. The looks over the fire, maybe. Or the way he lets their hands touch and linger when he takes her bowl after dinner.But whatever it is, Keerla Tabris does not hesitate that night. She trusts her gut. When Alistair goes into his tent, long after everyone else, Keerla follows him.





	Touch

She doesn’t quite know what does it. The looks over the fire, maybe. Or the way he lets their hands touch and linger when he takes her bowl after dinner.

But they are… Something, now. An item. They’ve kissed. More than once. He’s confessed. They’ve even slept in each other’s arms… Granted, that last one was an accident.

But whatever does it, Keerla Tabris does not hesitate that night. She trusts her gut. When Alistair goes into his tent, long after everyone else, Keerla follows him.

The tent falls close behind her, taking the light of the dying fire with it. She kneels on Alistair’s bedroll, in the dark, her own breathing too loud in her ears.

Tentative fingers touch her shoulder. She leans into the contact and scoots forward, until her eyes start to guess the contour of Alistair’s body. He’s kneeling too, staring unblinkingly down at her. She lets herself twist and fall on the bedroll, and he follows, hovering above her body like he’s not quite sure of what he’s allowed to do.

“Keerla–”

She places a hand on the small of his back and pulls, until she can feel his whole body pressed against hers. _Warm_. Keerla’s eyes have grown a little more accustomed to the dark now, and she can see a blush spreading on Alistair’s cheek. He looks ready to say something, a self-deprecating grimace already covering his face, so she kisses him.

Keerla doubts she’s doing this properly. She feels clumsy, her tongue not at the right place, not at the right time, her rhythm wrong; but she forgets about her own awkwardness when she captures Alistair’s lower lip between her teeth, and he groans low in his throat, and bucks against her. She gasps, letting go of his lips and spreading her legs apart without thinking.

Alistair’s breathing fast. Void, _she_ ’s breathing fast. She wonders how she hasn’t noticed before. He stares at her, pupils wide, and Keerla thinks, _more_.

So she gets more. She cups the back of his head, where the hair is short and soft, and drags him down back to her mouth. She vaguely wonders about the world outside of their tent. Can they hear? Can they guess?

She wraps her legs around Alistair’s body and pulls him, closer, need to be closer. He settles between her legs. She contorts her back, pressing her hips forward, and he pushes against her, hard and trembling, and _Maker_ does that feel good.

It feels like too much. It feels too warm. It feels like she might die if they stop.

Without a word, without breaking the kiss, she reaches downwards and wraps shaking fingers in the fabric of her shirt.

“What–” Alistair murmurs, voice hoarse.

“Too warm.”

He nods. He moves backwards so she can have the room to remove her shirt, and she almost whimpers at the loss of pressure right _there_ , where she needs it so desperately. She hurries at getting the tunic off her, but it gets tangled in her hair, and she lays there, Alistair hovering just a little too far, shirt tugging painfully at her scalp. She feels like she could cry. She lets herself fall back against the bedroll, defeated.

“Let me.”

She looks up. Alistair’s face displays the same calm that she’s seen when he’s sharpening weapons, or lighting the fire, and he would almost look collected if it wasn’t for the blush spreading all the way to his collar. He frees her in a few careful manoeuvres, and the shirt is soon thrown to a dark corner of the tent.

Keerla suddenly realises how very exposed she is.

As much as support is needed for her chest when she’s fighting, it’s always the first thing she disposes of when they start setting up camp. With her shirt gone, there is nothing but skin, all the way to her hips.

Alistair seems entranced. He looks up at her, looking for something, and then drops a careful hand to her belly.

His fingers are calloused, and cold, and Keerla flinches at the sensation. It feels strange to have someone else’s hand there. Exposed stomach usually means a threat. But not there. Not with Alistair.

His fingers warm up quickly against her skin as they travel slowly up, catch on her breast, and come to rest on the side of her neck. She closes her eyes. The thumb swipes softly over her cheek, and she can’t help but lean into the touch.

She realises this posture exposes her throat when she feels soft lips tracing it. She lets out a noise that’s half-way between a whine and a sob and wraps both arms tightly around Alistair.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against her throat.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says, voice so low she thinks for a moment he hasn’t heard her.

He kisses her, with none of the heat that was there a few minutes ago. “Me neither,” he confesses in an uncharacteristically serious tone.

She huffs a nervous laughter, burying her face in the crook of his neck. His fingers press into her scalp, drawing mindless patterns, and she finds her composure in the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers.

She lets herself fall back against the bedroll. He hovers over her again, one arm propped on each side of her head. She takes a shuddering breath in.

“I want– I– I want–” Talking seems like an impossible task. How can she tell him? She doesn’t know the words, doesn’t know how to explain, but she wants, she wants, she wants…

She grabs his neck and tugs. He thankfully gets the message, lowering himself against her again, and she almost gasps in relief when his weight settles between her legs again, right _there_.

The kiss is just as clumsy as ever, warm and wet and electric. Her legs spasm against Alistair’s back, pressing him closer, and upwards, and that– oh, that’s good. Alistair seems to feel much the same, because he moves back, and closer again, skin rubbing against fabric rubbing against skin.

They find a rhythm. Keerla feels her legs tremble around his body, but she squeezes them tight and pulls him in, releases, pulls him in again, and with each thrust Alistair gasps in her mouth.

“I–” Alistair keeps moving, but he buries his face in her splayed hair, right next to her ear. “If we keep doing this, I’ll–”

“Good.” Keerla knows just enough to guess what he’s hinting at. She reaches up and cups the back of his head, presses it against the side of her throat. “I want you to.”

Alistair whimpers at that, his thrusts speeding. He places both hands on the side of her hips, fingers digging in, and holds her there as he pulls, pushes, pulls again.

His breath is hot and urgent against Keerla’s throat, each of them accompanied by a broken kind of noise, sending jolts of energy right where Alistair is rubbing against hers.

And then, without warning, his breath hitches and he pulls her hips closer even, fingers locked almost painfully tight on her. He stills there, mouthing at her throat, body shuddering under her palms.

The silence that follows is eerie. Keerla waits, unmoving and silent, and time stretches.

When Alistair finally detaches himself from her, the cold seizes her in an unpleasant wave and she shivers.

He hovers above her, head bowed. She cups his chin and pulls it upwards until Alistair has no choice but to look at her.

“I…” He stops himself. Closes his mouth. His hair sticks to his forehead. His lips look swollen, and far redder than she’s ever seen them before. She wants to kiss them again, so she does.

“That was–”

Keerla nods.

“I– I need to, uh.” Alistair gestures vaguely towards his crotch. “I need to…clean up?”

She nods again. Alistair gets to his knees, clumsy like he never is on the battlefield, and he silently slips out.

Keerla lets all her body relax against the bedroll, the heat between her thighs growing less pressing by the minute.

She doesn’t need to go any further. Not always. She briefly considers making herself feel good, right there, but she then elects to just wait for Alistair to come back so they can both sleep.

There’ll be other opportunities.

She grabs a piece of clean fabric from her pack and slips in past her waistband, soaking most of the wetness there. She groans when she realises just _how much_ there is. _Maker but that was good_.

Alistair comes back right as she shoves the folded tissue into her pack. He looks slightly more composed, although the tips of his ears turn a bright shade of pink when Keerla smirks up at him.

They lay facing each other, legs tangled. Keerla gathers her arms against her chest to ward off the cold, too comfortable to put her tunic back on, and Alistair draws his blanket over them both.

They stay like that for a while, breaths slow and steady, like waves that reassuringly engulf Keerla, until she feels him shifting.

More precisely, it’s his leg that’s shifting. The leg that’s held loosely between her thighs. It rides up, and up, towards her crotch, and when it’s there it starts rocking gently against her. She bites her lip.

She wonders if he’s aware of his movements. She looks up at his face. He stares back, thigh still thrusting back and forth rhythmically.

_Very aware, then._

She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t know what to say, and it’s a whimper that comes out. A satisfied smile covers his lips, and he pushes his thigh further in this time.

And it’s… It’s so good… But it’s _not enough_.

Without breaking eye contact, almost like a challenge, Keerla licks her fingers and reaches down, past her waistband, right where she’s warm and wet and craving pressure. She presses one of her fingers to that one spot and her eyes flutter shut. She hears Alistair draw a ragged breath and feels his thigh shudder against hers.

She knows how to do this. She figured out long ago how well it worked to rid her mind and body of stress. She gathers some of the wetness from further down and drags it up, rubbing circles against that one spot that never fails to make her vision go black at the edges.

She arches her body to chase her own fingers, legs weak and trembling, blood rushing, to her ears, to her chest, to her crotch.

“How can I– What can I do?”

She blinks up at Alistair. He’s watching her shoulder move, her arm still hidden by the blanket, and his throat bobs when he swallows.

She grabs his wrist with her free hand and lets herself fall onto her back, pushing the blanket off. Alistair follows. She pulls his hand towards her side, over her ribcage, where her skin is thin and sensitive, and then she drags it over her breasts, to her throat, to her hair. “T–Touch me,” is all she manages to breathe out, her fingers still furiously chasing her pleasure.

And he does. He settles half against her and half above, on arm supporting his weight while the other hand roams over her burning skin. He maps it all out carefully, following the jerks of her arm and the shudders of her breath to the most sensitive parts of her chest, of her throat, of her scalp.

She closes her eyes again, following Alistair only by the caresses on her skin. She jerks when she feels his lips grazing at her throat, exposing it even more without thinking. She feels his warm breath reach her clavicle and his lips kiss along it, slowly. Her breath catches when his lips find her nipple. They wrap softly around it, tentatively, and then a wet tongue reaches down and flicks at it.

“Alistair!” she cries out, and this time there’s no way the camp didn’t hear that.

Alistair pulls back, brows drawn together, a question on his face.

“Get back there,” she growls at him.

He does. This time his hand finds her other nipple, rolling it softly between two fingers, his palm resting, warm and firm, over her ribs.

He hums around her nipple, and that does it.

Her arm jerks again, fingers bumping clumsily wherever, wherever it feels good, and she cries out. Discretion be damned.

Her whole world goes white, and she waits for it to swim back into focus.

When it does, the first thing she sees is Alistair hovering over her, satisfied smile on his lips and cheeks bright red. She lifts a weak arm in his direction. He leans closer and kisses her, lips wet – wet from sucking at her skin.

She lets her head fall back against the bedroll. She laughs. It’s happy and high-pitched and a little hysterical, but it makes Alistair smile down at her fondly.

“I definitely need to clean up,” she murmurs when she catches her breath.

“Oh! Oh, right.” Alistair moves backwards, leaving her cold once again. She weakly drags herself to her knees. He hands her her shirt, cold and unappealing, and she puts it on reluctantly.

She steps out of the tent and stands there for a few seconds, legs trembling still. She crosses camp and joins the small river they settled near. Once she’s made sure no one else is around, she steps quickly into the freezing stream. She feels a little silly, standing half-dressed with water to her ankles, washing her clothes and herself as best as she can.

The cold fabric will not be very comfortable, but at least it won’t be sticky.

When she’s done she walks back to the tent, where she hesitates, for just a second, suddenly overwhelmed by doubt. She shakes her head vigorously and opens the flap.

Alistair is sitting right in the centre of the space, wrapped in his blanket, knees drawn against him. He looks relieved when he sees her.

“Hey,” she murmurs, stupidly.

“Hey,” he responds.

They lay down. She puts her back to him, and he surrounds her completely, from head to toes, solid, his breath hot against her scalp. She drapes the blanket over them both. He wraps an arm around her waist and tucks his hand under her. She can’t remember ever feeling this safe.

She falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


End file.
